


Unprecedented

by JoSkelly



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage series, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Heavy arguing, Jealousy, More tags to be added, NSFW, Slow Burn, Smut, There's always drama when Tobirama is involved, TobiDRAMA, We all wish we were the poor lady
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-22 16:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22752532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoSkelly/pseuds/JoSkelly
Summary: posted from my tumblr for safe-keeping, hope to make a series out of itTobirama knew marriage would be difficult, he just didn't know how difficult. At least he's trying.
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uzumaki Mito, Tobirama Senju/some poor lady, Tobirama/OC, Tobirama/a lot of mistakes, Tobirama/insert, Tobirama/insert OC?
Comments: 30
Kudos: 84





	Unprecedented

**Author's Note:**

> Some fics are from my tumblr, some will have been independently written. This chapter is from tumblr. The prompt was:
> 
> "Tobirama in an arranged marriage scenario! They didn't consummate the marriage and start to develop feelings for one another!"

The ceremony was basic, and private. Only family and a select few notable members from their respective clans attended, and it lasted half the time a thorough ceremony should have.

Hashirama's vision of a charming wedding for his brother quickly lost life. Tobirama refused the mere thought of an arranged marriage at its first mention; he would _not_ be married to some stranger from a clan which had opposed the Senju for decades. He let Hashirama have his union with the Uchiha, but he would bow to his elder brother’s delusions no more than that, and for something as frivolous as marriage, no less. 

Yet Tobirama found himself regrettably swayed, in the end. It took weeks of pleading on Hashirama's part. Depicting the prospect of the marriage as something logical and beneficial would be the only power that Tobirama acquiesced to. If acquiring resources and specialized workers for Konoha’s growth meant an alliance, was it not worth it? So Hashirama presented it. Tobirama was inclined to agree, though less inclined to concede that it would be his marriage on the table.

Had the clan been any less profitable, Tobirama would have refused and never spoken of the issue again. But the fact remained that there was little to lose and a monument to gain from the alliance. That would be the sole saving grace. It was the only fleeting comfort that quelled his mind during the tedious ceremony, though it quickly failed to do its job as the minutes dragged on and introduced a sinking feeling of doubt into his conscience. 

Tobirama could see the discomfort in his bride’s eyes during the ceremony, the way they flickered ever so slightly to her father in the crowd, as if aspiring for his sudden change of heart that would rescue her from her dismal fate.

At one point, Tobirama thought she looked on the verge of tears. Sullen tears or angry tears, he didn't know. The latter didn't sound unlikely; he had heard that her compliance was no easier wrought than his.

Their shared disdain for the union should have eased some of his concerns. He wouldn’t have to worry about offending her should he not provide intimately like a husband should. If they could come to a civil understanding, then it would pave an at least refined path for the rest of the marriage. The eternal, unescapable marriage.

But civility would not be an effortless task. On the wedding night, she made that transparent.

“I won’t do this,” she told him mere seconds after walking into their bedroom, her expression hard, voice overcompensating for the pressure with confidence. “I don’t want to be touched. I’ll spend the night outside if I have to, but I can’t do this.”

He had only spoken but sentences to her before their wedding day; it was hardly enough time to gauge her personality. Such impertinence was the last thing he expected. He should have been offended, but he wasn't. Not really. He could sympathize with how she felt. Nevertheless, he was annoyed that she had such a... brutish image of him.

“Do I look as if I’m peeling off my clothes and getting under the sheets?” he asked.

She examined him, distrust rising in her eyes. Then, as if realizing how misplaced her paranoia was, she looked away.

“I can’t do this,” she murmured again, voice sounding involuntarily fragile. 

“You don’t have to.”

She crossed her arms protectively, as if guarding herself from some unseen offense he had yet to commit. But her voice no longer sounded as cold as it had, at the least.

“It’s our wedding night. If we don’t—”

“You said you don’t want to be touched. Then fine. You won’t be.”

Consummating the marriage was not something he had intended to do regardless, though he knew she was right. It was a necessary finalization to their alliance. Ridiculous, in his opinion—and rather demeaning for the both of them—but necessary in tradition's eye, nonetheless.

She looked at him, trying to judge him, he suspected. Trying to judge whether or not his words could be trusted, or if they were a means to take advantage of her vulnerability.

“There’s an extra room,” he offered. “You can sleep there.”

“No.”

Then she was back to avoiding his gaze, staggered by the pride that dwindled within her.

“If we don’t have to do…” She couldn't even fathom the words. Doing so would bring her shame; if what was expected of them remained unspoken, it seemed less real, and thus less imperative.

“If we don't have to do anything," she carried on, more confident, "I can sleep here.”

“You don’t have to,” he reminded her.

“It’s fine.”

 _But was it?_ Tobirama didn't so easily consent to the change in her attitude. He empathized with her frustration, with her confusion. He had been thrown into the situation as blindly and hastily as she. But he wouldn't settle for taking the brunt of her scattered emotions, not when his own begged priority. And then for her to be so compliant now, behind closed doors? As if she hadn't been glaring daggers at him the entire ceremony?

He didn't know what the marriage had in store for him, not when it had in so little time succeeded to unnerve, irritate, and confuse him all at once.

There was no more to discuss. He expressed no objection to her decision, despite his quarreling instincts. Stiffly and wordlessly, they climbed into bed, keeping as far away from each other as space allowed. 

“Goodnight,” she whispered to him out of the blue, just when he felt the beginnings of sleep creeping over him.

His eyes opened, but he didn't respond, not at first. He considered not responding at all, in fact. But if he was going to hope for civility, it wasn't a bad place to start.

“Goodnight.”

~

“So, how are you?” Hashirama asked him the next day.

Tobirama’s eyes stayed fixed on the map in his hands, but they narrowed imperceptibly.

“How do you think?”

Hashirama shrugged, but his tone was cautious. “I think you look more relaxed than I anticipated…” He eyed his younger brother with reluctant curiosity. “Did everything go smoothly last night—”

“Don’t,” Tobirama told him, looking at him in earnest now. “Don’t ask.”

Hashirama frowned. “I’m only wondering, Tobirama. I hope you behaved like a gentleman—”

_“Don’t.”_

The frown persisted, but Hashirama said no more. 

~

Tobirama made certain that every morning he was the first one awake and the first to leave. Waking with her and going about nuptial early morning routines alongside each other sounded less than appealing. He preferred they stay away from each other as often as possible. It saved him from pretending like they were a comfortable, happy couple.

For a time, he considered sleeping in a different room. They’d had some sort of offhand, spiteful discussion about it once. He couldn't even remember why it started. He couldn't remember why most of their debates started, really.

Their brief, bitter disagreements came in passing, and much too often. And when they weren't arguing, they tried to ignore the unfamiliarity between them by simply ignoring each other. Not that Tobirama hadn’t anticipated this problem, but it still annoyed him to feel so alienated. He found himself dreading the idea of coming home to a house that no longer belonged only to him, and going to bed with the wife that felt more like a stranger. 

His eyes followed her closely when she was near, always curious. He didn't completely trust her, and doubted he ever would. If all he could do to alleviate the discomfort of his situation was remain constantly vigilant—regardless of how foolish it seemed to be wary of the woman he was expected to spend the rest of his life with—he would do it.

Strangely enough, he even found himself watching her as they slept.

He didn't know why. Perhaps it was some feeble, self-indulgent attempt to read her. He could always read people, and with little effort. He prided himself on that. Yet his spouse was a mystery to him. Apart from the occasional attitude and uncertain, guarded looks he received when she walked into their home, he had little of her figured out.

It became an odd, detrimental game of his—watching her when he couldn't find sleep at night, when he woke up before her, when a sound stirred him from his dreams and the prospect of inspecting her seemed more appealing than returning to his slumber. He didn't know what he hoped to gain by doing it, but soon enough, it became habit. 

Weeks went by. He found that he had memorized every facet of her features, down to every curve of her lips, the shape of her brows, the length of her lashes—everything. 

And he didn't quite know how to feel about that.

~

Tobirama came home late one day, exhausted and starving. Normally, if he skipped his lunch and dinner on account of a busy schedule, he could stave off the hunger pains just long enough to sleep, finding that scavenging for a decent meal in the house wasted his time. But he could only endure so much. 

Which was why when he walked into the house that night and the warm scent of food invaded his noise, his stomach twisted with hunger. The ache intensified at the thought of eating a proper meal, but he knew the smell only lingered from whatever his spouse had decided to cook for herself. He often came home hours past dinnertime, the loitering aroma of food in the air, plates drying near the sink. 

A twinge of irritation slowly grew at the sight, but he knew they were in no position to sit down and eat dinner together like a nice, doting couple. They may have lived in the same house, and slept in the same bed, but ultimately, they still lived separate lives. 

She was always asleep when he came home; only silence ever received him. He expected no less when he walked into the kitchen. But there she was, setting a fresh plate of fish and greens on the table. She froze when she saw him, and stared wordlessly.

He found the silence off-putting. It felt less and less befitting as the days went by. 

“You’re up late,” he said, for lack of better repartee. “And eating late.”

“I’m not,” she replied, regaining composure.

Finally, she tore her eyes away from him, situated utensils next to the full plate, then backed away and waited.

His brow raised curiously when the pause persisted. He looked at her for clarification. He couldn't tell if she was impatient or nervous. Or both.

“I notice you don’t eat when you come home,” she said finally, slightly exasperated that the spectacle necessitated explanation. “Even when you come home early, in the middle of the day. You don’t eat at all.” Her gaze remained astray, as if looking him in the eye was a task. “I figured you were just starving yourself. So…” She gestured to the plate of food.

Tobirama had difficulty finding anything meaningful to say once he realized what she meant by the whole display. And by the time he did, she had already waited excruciating moments in unrequited silence. But it couldn't be helped.

Courtesy had never come easy to him. Certainly, he would have never thought to do for her what she’d just done for him. He found no reason to spare time for something so trivial and out of his way. 

When she finally looked him in the eyes, he decided on her demeanor: she was nervous. He supposed it was warranted, given his silence. But he still couldn't find the right words. 

“Did you already eat?” was what he managed. It offered a mild gratitude and consideration, in some way. He figured—more like hoped—that would be sufficient.

“Yes.”

He couldn't tell if she was disappointed or relieved that he had so little to say.

He nodded, and noticed for the first time how his own gaze begged to stray from hers. How insufferably meek of him. 

“I need to change, first,” he said. Without waiting for a reply, or so much as a nod, he moved to their bedroom.

After his dinner, they lay in bed quietly, confined to silence by a routine and heavy shroud of tension.

Tobirama kept expecting her to say something, to say _anything_. But she didn't. He didn't suspect that she was asleep, either. He had come to recognize the soft pattern of her breathing when she slept, and the way she shifted to find a comfortable position. That he knew her so well—or rather, watched her so closely—was a confusing and distressing realization. 

His tolerance for the silence wavered, eventually. It normally didn't bother him; he could handle the weight of their silences, as they weren't his to mend. It was especially preferred if it meant avoiding small talk that would either leave the awkwardness worse off, or result in a coarse argument. Silence simply suited them. Or rather, it had. But now it crawled over him like an irritating chill, begging to be relieved. 

“Thank you,” he murmured.

He didn't know if she was awake to hear it, or if she simply decided to ignore him, but he refused to give her lack of response more thought than necessary, lest he risk his ire any more.

It was when he decided to close his eyes and seek sleep that he heard her voice, soft and hesitant.

“You’re welcome.”

~

Missions were becoming much riskier, Tobirama begrudgingly accepted one day. He returned from a routine scouting operation with a sizeable gash down his side. Had he adorned his armor, the injury could have feasibly been avoided. Regrettably, he had donned only his training gear. In his defense, he hadn't expected to run into less-than amicable shinobi along the way. 

The scar would heal, the medics promised him. But his torn shirt seemed beyond repair. Unfortunate, since the kimono shirt was a gift from one of the elder Senju seamstresses. She had made one for him and Hashirama when they came of age. It was a shame to see the thing ruined. He decided he would stop by her home to have it repaired when he found the opportunity. 

In the present, the mishap would serve as an inconvenience. He was meant to meet Hashirama and facilitate a meeting between the Akimichi and Sarutobi clan heads. Hashirama would likely be late, as usual, which meant Tobirama needed to arrive in a timely fashion, lest they wished to insult both clan heads.

He imagined it would be no hassle to fish out a spare shirt somewhere in his room, had his wife not decided to organize it to her liking. Accommodating her wardrobe was another grievance on his endless list, but it seemed inconsequential the previous times he had thought about it. Now, he cursed under his breath with every drawer that he opened which rewarded none of his own wardrobe, only her neatly folded clothes and belongings.

The closet, the clothespress, the drawers—he found nothing. His wife had done laundry recently, he recalled. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she inadvertently took his clothes with hers. 

Time running thin, he made haste to search the house for the stock of clothes, frustrated when he found nothing. Where did the damn woman put things? Though he had never been particularly meticulous about organizing, he could at least _find_ what he was looking for in his _own_ house before she moved in. 

He swiftly slid open the door to the washroom, and froze when he saw her—stark nude, water dripping from her skin, one arm barely through the sleeve of a robe. Had he barged in a second later, perhaps she would have been dressed, he thought fleetingly. Yet his eyes were fixed, his thought process paused.

“Tobirama—”

She stared, eyes wide. Apparently grasping sense faster than he could, she hastily wrapped herself in the robe. At the same time, he shut the door and tried to stutter out an apology, but loyal to his fluster, he only managed an upbraiding.

“Why didn’t you _lock_ the door?” he shouted.

“The door was closed for a reason!” she snapped, voice thin but staggered, as if she were still reeling from the intrusion.

He closed his eyes, trying to fight away the shame, but it rose back into his cheeks as a blush when he realized that shutting his eyes only embedded the image of her naked body into his mind.

“I was _looking_ for my clothes,” he responded, with just as much hostility. “Why are you even here? You told me you would be with your clan. Didn’t you hear me in the house—”

“Didn’t you hear _me_? I came home early. And why would your clothes be in here, Tobirama?”

Well, he didn't really know. Why would they be? Why didn’t he hear her? Why did he not notice her shoes at the front door? Why did he not sense her chakra? He could blame it all on a mind clouded by haste, but it wasn't an argument they need to have in that moment. It would last for hours.

“I’m in a hurry. Where are my clothes?”

“They needed to be washed, so I _washed_ them—”

“Where?”

“Drying on the porch.”

Tobirama would have happily admonished her for being so bitter. It was just the right outlet he needed for his frustration. But he knew better. He had to remind himself that she _was_ his wife, no matter how the fact exasperated him.

He found his shirts drying on the clotheslines, and tugged down the driest one he could find—which wasn't dry at all: didn’t the woman know to put clothes out to dry only when there was a _sun_ to dry them?—and tossed his torn shirt onto the living room floor. She could pick it up later.

He didn't know how much longer he could tolerate the antagonism that now stained their marriage… or how much longer he could put the picture of her nude, wet body out of his mind.

~

Weeks like this, when she was rarely at the house and spending most of her days in her clan’s neighborhood, gave him a much needed reprieve. It made the journey back home brisk, the notion of stepping into his house one to look forward to rather than dread.

His shoulders relaxed; his mind cleared. He expected to revel in his freedom that afternoon, at least until she came home for the night. Until then, he could perhaps perfect a jutsu he had been developing, read over reports, catch up on a novel he had been needing to read.

Illusions of these endeavors vanished when he stepped onto his porch and sensed her. He hadn’t purposefully infused his chakra for sensory purposes—he realized that it may have become second nature now, to confirm her whereabouts—but fortunate that he did. He didn't like being caught off guard. Now, at least he could put all thoughts of a peaceful day to rest, and prepare for the tense, evasive game they played so well.

He never made a habit of announcing his arrival. It wasn't a courtesy he thought to offer her. He must have been superbly quiet as he entered his home; she didn't even seem to notice him when he slipped into their room.

At first he thought she was ignoring him. Which was fine. It was better that way, and he was used to it. But as he studied her demeanor, he could tell she simply was unaware of his presence.

Her back faced him. She sat at the edge of the bed, occupied with what he thought was sewing. Odd. He never painted her the sewing type.

Curious, he approached, still light of foot. If he could satisfy the curiosity without attracting an attention to himself that would invite idle conversation—or less preferably, but more likely, an argument—it would be optimal.

Only when he came closer did he see it was his kimono shirt that she mended. He stopped, perplexed. 

When she sensed him and whirled around, her face colored with embarrassment. She practically threw the shirt aside, hiding it, as if it would save her pride to pretend like it didn't exist.

“I was going to throw it away,” she insisted. “But—I thought I could fix it. Maybe.”

He stared, speechless. At that point, her random and eccentric instances of kindness shouldn’t have surprised him.

Sometimes he came home to find his work space cleaned and organized. He scolded her for it the first time, contending that she had disarranged his paperwork and ruined his ‘system’, which was a lie. He’d simply needed a reason to contest her gesture because frankly, he didn’t know how to accept it. She also persisted to cook him dinners, though she made sure to be in bed by the time he came home to the meals. It seemed that she timed it all perfectly, just so she wouldn’t be forced to chance upon him and face her graciousness, but cutting her time thin enough so the food was still decently fresh. A courtesy on top of a courtesy.

Why did she do it? He wished he knew.

~

One day he came home and he heard it: soft, broken sounds, like hiccups. But they sounded sullen, the closer to the din he ventured. He knew it well enough. Crying.

Skeptical at first, not believing that it could be his new wife resounding such melancholy tunes, he hesitated. Since their wedding night, she had shown no vulnerability. But he pushed past the hesitance in favor of an odd, unyielding urge. He couldn’t imagine simply leaving her to wallow without knowing what it was she wallowed about. He decided it was just a case of curiosity, despite how eagerly he wanted to know the source of her supposed sadness. 

He slowly pushed open the door to their bedroom. There she was on the bed, her back to him, head in her hands.

He said her name quietly, but before the sound could completely leave his mouth she was standing, and still facing away from him, hastily wiped away the tears on her face.

“What?” she attempted forcibly through her choked voice. It wasn't stern at all. It was almost pitiful.

He watched her in silence, his brain racing for a way to remedy the situation. He didn’t often come across such a sight. He was only accustomed to soothing his brother when he was in his _depressed_ moods. But Hashirama never cried like she did now, and never so… earnestly.

“Are you alright?” he managed. A foolish question. Of course she wasn’t.

Nevertheless, she nodded, back still to him.

“I’m fine.”

Composure had found her voice again, but the words still came across broken, impaired by whatever despaired her. Tobirama was painfully curious, for whatever reason.

“What’s wrong—”

“ _Nothing_. I’m fine.”

She practically shoved him out the way as she left the bedroom. He almost stopped her. Almost.

Only later when the insistent urge crept over him could he no longer ignore it. He had tried to disregard her evident struggle for the rest of the day, tried to tell himself that her concerns were not his, that they especially didn’t warrant his attention if she would be stubborn and refuse to talk. He shouldn’t care. He _wouldn’t_ care.

Yet, there he was, standing over her as she sat in their living room trying and failing to put her attention into sorting laundry.

He knew she sensed him already, but she remained silent. Taking it as neither an encouragement nor aversion to him going first, he did.

“______," he said her name.

“What?”

The answer was sharp but quiet, bordering impatience.

Sitting and watching his better half give her best attempt at temperance wasn't pleasant. He had better things to do than entertain her stubbornness. Yet his persistence was fueled by a need. A need he couldn't name, and one he didn't know how to welcome.

"Are you..."

He stopped short of saying the rest, reminding himself that baseless questions never went over well.

"Am I _what_?" 

He took a deep breath to crush the instinctive urge to snap at her.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Obviously, there is.”

She shook her head and stared down at the shirt in her hands, as if it had the answer. 

“One of my friends died today.” 

Her voice was frail, almost distant, void of the anger he had anticipated.

“We grew up together," she added softly.

Tobirama watched her closely, tried to decide whether or not to of warranted his sympathy.

Death was no longer a sad thing to him. It hadn’t been for a long time. He had lost comrades. Friends. Brothers. It was all the same. In the world they lived in, death shouldn’t have necessitated anything more than acknowledgement, and a promise to work harder to prevent more of it in the future. But looking at her now, curled into her sadness, he saw no room for his grim pragmatics.

“I’m... sorry.”

It was a weak attempt, he knew that was evident in his voice. 

She shook her head, tired eyes closing, tired hands giving up their task.

“She was ill for a long time," she explained. "A sickness that never went away. It wasn’t getting any better.”

He did sympathize now, truly. But the empathy needed to comfort her was lost to him, no matter badly he suddenly wanted her spirits to lift. He might not have enjoyed her company a majority of the time, but he was finding that he liked it much better when she was happy. Or at least, at ease. Even a heated argument between them was better than watching her like this. It was painful.

“I can…” But what? What could he do to alleviate her turmoil? What could he possibly do that his pride would allow?

Nothing.

“No,” she murmured, annoyed, defeated, but most of all fatigued. “It’s fine. I told you. It’s fine… I just want to be alone.”

His heart stung for some reason. Was it rejection? Shame? Irritation? He didn't know.

He went to sleep that night with a weight in his chest, knowing she lay restless beside him, that she couldn't sleep. Knowing she was hurting.

All night, he fought the urge to turn over and talk to her, maybe even to touch her. Anything that could possibly soothe her. Yet he still didn't know where these sentiments came from, and therefore, he couldn't trust them.

~

There had been a man looking at her during their wedding, Tobirama remembered.

It seemed inconsequential at the time. At most, Tobirama deduced that enmity still ran deep in her clan. Marrying one of their own to a former enemy would not sit well with her clansmen that hoped to preserve pride. Tobirama acknowledged that from the beginning, and admittedly empathized. There would be opposition and spite from those who still abhorred the Senju and despised the mere idea of a union between their clans.

Beyond that, Tobirama assumed the man could have been some sort of admirer, disconcerted by the betrothal, venting his frustration through glowers and futile ill will. Still, Tobirama had been far too absorbed in his own turmoil to consider a third party equally begrudged his marriage. It remained a minor and fleeting inconvenience at most. At least, until now.

Tobirama shouldn’t have eavesdropped in the first place, but his frustrating curiosity couldn’t be subdued. The moment he spotted his wife walking the village streets, he had an impulse to turn the other way. Their grounds had been confusing, as of late. No more spiteful disagreements. No more harsh looks. They didn’t even ignore each other on _purpose_ anymore; it was simply second nature.

Why the idea of encountering her outside the premise of their house was unsettling, he didn’t know. Facing her made his chest tighten and his normally swift thoughts come to a tumbling halt. The only thing that impeded his split-second decision to avoid her was the familiar man that suddenly appeared at her side and gently tugged on her sleeve.

If not for that single, intimate gesture, Tobirama might have ignored the occurrence all together and continued in the other direction. But the way the man moved in close to her, the way he practically whispered into her ear—it begged Tobirama’s attention.

He considered it obligation. Solicited curiosity from a husband, and nothing else, even despite the way he tensed upon seeing the man beckon her into the nearest empty alley.

Tobirama followed and waited around the corner, peering over to watch the man speak to his wife with muted eagerness.

His chest swelled with something unwelcoming, something he couldn't place and didn't like. He remembered now. The man— _boy_ , truthfully, now that Tobirama got a better look at him—was present often, and didn’t once tear his gaze from her anytime he was in the vicinity.

Once, Hashirama had hosted some impulsive, hospitable congregation for the clans in the village and their respective elites. Tobirama wasn’t happy to hear about it, and even less happy to hear he and his wife needed to attend. It was there Tobirama noticed the boy’s close regard for his wife.

He hadn't looked away from her the entire evening, and hovered near until he could hastily fill the space at her side that Tobirama left empty when he departed, which happened often; they could only linger near each other for so long under the pretense of happiness until one of them gave in, and wandered off for short reprieve. This had apparently given the boy all the opportunities he needed. 

He was some sort of bookkeeper to her clan, Tobirama thought. Or maybe a treasurer. Maybe some simple errand-runner. Clearly, he wasn't noteworthy enough to remember. Regardless, Tobirama didn’t think the boy’s position constituted his frequent ogling. It was clear what the boy sought—or rather, what he desired.

Tobirama could have ignored it. It didn't need his attention, nor his concern. Yet there he stood, watching the boy take his wife’s hands in his and speak to her in such a hushed, personal whisper. It was too far from Tobirama’s ears to decipher, but unmistakably intimate all the same.

The winding irritation in his chest flourished until he was near ready to push from the wall and confront them, not knowing what he wanted to do, what he wanted to say, only that he wanted it to _stop_.

But then she pulled away from the boy on her own accord, let her hands slip from his and shook her head slowly, the look on her face solemn but firm.

The boy, as far as Tobirama could tell, looked devastated. His posture weakened and the brightness of his features failed as melancholy took root. Apparently accepting his defeat, he nodded slowly and backed away from her. Another word or two was spoken, and then he left her.

Tobirama watched her, watched the way she looked after the boy with such contrition. But why? Why did she look so grave? What he had witnessed was a fruitless confession, no doubt. That should have solved Tobirama's concern, but the sour taste in his mouth remained. Had she refused him because of unrequited sentiment, or because the bonds of marriage demanded her to? Given the choice, under different circumstances, would she have denied the boy all the same?

More important, why did it matter to him? Why did he care? 

After a moment’s hesitation she turned, coming down the path where he watched in secret. He considered retreating, but the teetering irritation within him willed him to stay. She didn't see him, not until he chose to step out in front of her.

She came to a nervous halt, almost as if caught committing a crime, he noticed. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second, mouth falling open in a lost utterance, then she quickly reclaimed her composure.

“Tobirama.”

He noted her impulse to turn around and see if the boy was out of sight. But she refused to satisfy it, looking only at him. It was a commendable discipline, but it made him all the more suspicious. 

“My brother said he would like us to join him for dinner tonight," he said, feigning his cluelessness to the entire spectacle. 

She looked rattled by his calm demeanor, ignorant to the fact that his chest still tightened with a foreign feeling he couldn't name.

“Yes," she replied tepidly. "Mito told me.”

Clearly, they wouldn't be discussing the incident any time soon, if at all. They would both be the better for it; he couldn't even imagine how to approach the subject. He couldn’t simply _demand_ that she explain the exchange he had just witnessed, could he? She was his wife. Reasonably, he should have been obligated to know about the men that made intimate attempts on her. Yet it appeared that even those sensible expectations would remain unfulfilled. 

“We should arrive together,” she said finally, pushing tumultuous thoughts out of his mind.

He nodded, studying her with a curious expression that she didn't like. For the rest of the night, his mind raced with thoughts of her that he didn't understand.

~

One night she woke to the warmth of his body flush against her back, an arm resting around her waist, and his soft breaths caressing her ear.

Her eyes snapped open. As much as she wanted to move away, her body refused, paralyzed. Her thoughts went awry. 

_Was he aware?_ she wondered.

No, she thought, not likely. He was completely dormant, his deep, long breaths confirming sleep.

Should she push him away? Wake him up? She couldn't decide, and as that indecision webbed through her with panicked, anxious speed, he shifted closer to her with a deep grunt, the grip around her waist tightening.

A particularly heavy, relaxed breath against her ear made her shiver. Her heart thudded so loud in the still room that she was sure it would be what woke him.

Restless as she was, she dared not move. With her body trapped against his in such an intimate manner, the shock was partially due to curiosity, and not entirely discomfort. It was as though she were suspended—not wholly adverse to being nestled against him, while at the same time fighting her instinct to kick up the covers and distance herself.

Then his leg shifted beneath the sheets, a knee inadvertently nudging its way between her thighs. The shock wore off then. 

She didn't know what woke him: her little gasp, or the reactionary jerk of her legs as they struggled away from his invading limb. He inhaled a sharp breath as he gained consciousness, then went silent after a moment, as if he were no longer breathing at all.

The arm around her tensed as the grogginess was snatched away from him and the realization came crashing in. She said nothing, feigning sleep, and only waited. Then he quickly moved away.

Minutes later, when she finally braved glancing over her shoulder, she saw that he had shifted impossibly far to his end of the bed, as far away from her as possible.

Relieved, but also fearful that he would glance over in tandem, she turned away cautiously and rested back into her pillow, eyes unable to close and body unable to relax.

An embarrassing fluster washed over her. The separation should have calmed her, and should have allowed sleep to return to her. But admittedly, she missed the warmth.

~

She journeyed to find him with his students one day near the river. She didn't approach, not at first, though she was certain he must have been aware of her eavesdropping, especially when he dismissed his students not long after her arrival. She doubted it was coincidence. 

It was when the trio of young shinobi sprinted back to the village that she emerged from the woods. He stood knee deep in the shallow water, simulating ignorance to her approach. She thought he looked rather silly there, wading around as if hoping to not be noticed.

“Is the water nice?” she asked, coming to stand at the bank of the river.

He blinked, as if confused by the mundane question.

He hadn’t been able to relax around her lately. Welcoming anything besides caution or mistrust did not settle well with his instincts, but their recent interactions had almost seemed normal—or rather, normal in comparison—which implored him to be more accepting of her presence. But the mere thought of lowering his guard around his new wife confused him, and frankly irritated him.

His expression and tone remained unreadable as he answered, “It's decent.”

She glanced over her shoulder, as if worried a village spectator would witness the abnormally casual display between husband and wife. But they were far from the village. They were alone. It was peaceful, in a way—escaping the pressures of image and expectation. Maybe their relationship had been so strenuous because of that; out there in the wilderness, on their own accord, it was almost as if they were liberated. They could simply be two villagers. Two people. Not the victims of an unlikely marriage.

She raised her dress a little too high when she stepped into the clear water. Tobirama averted his eyes.

She watched him, noting the rigidity in his stance, and could have laughed if she weren't so unsure of their situation.

He always had reclusive tendencies, but the incident in the middle of the night many days before had apparently incentivized his prude behavior. Ever since that night, he acted as though being near her was physical torture; he avoided her gaze and slept so far from her in bed that she sometimes wondered if he would fall off. Not that she blamed him for his antics. Likely, he knew she was aware of what had happened.

But she had no plans to mention it to him. She would offer him a courtesy and spare him the embarrassment.

For now, they could relax in the sounds of nature, fighting the confusion that crept into them with each passing moment that their conversations became more and more organic. 

~

In short order, Mito had become more than just her sister-in-law, and something of a confidant. Her company was comforting and appreciated, so much so that the urge to claim emotional sanctuary won out over the woman's pride, and she finally vented marital concerns to the Uzumaki. 

It was all so much easier when they chose to ignore and avoid each other, the woman explained. But something had changed. She was no longer satisfied with the estrangement, and couldn't act as though it was acceptable or satisfactory. Their discomfort and occasional hostility had come to a startling halt as of late, and the mood between her and her new husband felt strained and uncertain. She didn’t like it.

In response to these concerns, Mito confessed to her that she was half-convinced Tobirama simply didn’t connect easily with women. Or people, for that matter. Even with her he was cordial, Mito said, but never completely personal. The Uzumaki wasn’t even surprised to hear that they hadn’t consummated their marriage.

"Perhaps Tobirama simply isn’t… interested _,"_ she said. "It’s not in any way your fault."

The woman thought about the suggestion carefully. This supposed aversion of Tobirama’s had saved her on their wedding night. But after so long, it felt improper. Bizarre, even. How long had they been married? Half a year? Even longer? She tried not to think about it.

Still, it was long enough. Long enough that marital duties weighed heavily on her mind day after day. Would they remain impersonal for the rest of their lives? Detachment couldn’t possibly fuel them forever. 

He had shifted close to her twice so far in the night and without fail moved away when he awoke. Certainly the fact he did it at all must have meant Tobirama Senju had some semblance of intimacy, she decided, even if he _was_ unconscious.

She wondered often about the dilemma, until one night he did it again, but this time, it was shockingly different.

It was when she fidgeted backwards that she felt his body, slightly annoyed with how little room he gave her. She suspected he would wake soon, revolted, and shift away from her, just as he always did. 

She thought of elbowing him in hopes that it would nudge him the other way, not caring if it woke or angered him. One of their disagreements earlier in the evening had left her with unsated frustration, and any little way to vent that frustration was a victory. But when she shifted back against him, ready to push him away, she felt it.

She froze. She knew what it was. It was impossible to misplace what pressed against her lower back, stiff and eager.

It was the last thing she ever expected, especially from someone like Tobirama. Even the most stoic of men were victim to the nature of their body, to their masculine urges—but Tobirama had, in her entirety of knowing him, seemed nearly resistant to such things.

Forcing her body to shed its tension, she relaxed and attempted to gently shift away from him, disgusted with herself at the fleeting, mischievous urge to press back against the hardness and test his reaction. But his fingers tightened into the fabric of her shirt the instant she moved, forcing her still.

She knew, despite his persistence, that his gestures were inadvertent; his breaths still came quiet and complacent close to her ear, almost imperceptible. He was still asleep.

No one could be so oblivious, she mused, even deep in their slumber. It was ironic to know she saw him at his most vulnerable as he was now: completely unaware, completely subject to the demands of his dormant needs.

In an attempt to shake him off, she pushed back every so lightly, and instantly regretted it when he grunted deep in his chest and shifted against her.

She imagined that she should have laughed at the whole situation; it was a seldom chance that a man like Tobirama Senju would debase himself like this. Regrettably, it was nowhere near as triumphant for her as it could have been. The discomfort of not knowing whether to move or to persevere denied her indulgence.

Sleep was not easy to salvage, but she forced herself to ignore the pressing matter at her back and endure until she dozed off.

~

The next morning, he left much earlier than usual. He even returned home at an untimely hour of the night. This continued for a week, then another.

The unusual pattern wasn't entirely rare; when his schedule complicated his day, he often worked long hours. But it had never persisted for so long, and with such evident purpose. 

One night she stayed awake waiting for him. Her eyes were succumbing to a persuasive plead for sleep when she heard him finally slip into the house.

He entered their bedroom quietly, and with practiced caution so routine that the last thing he expected was to see her dim-lit figure in their bed, sitting up, waiting for him.

“You’re late,” she said, voice calm and indifferent, betraying nothing. “You woke up early, too. You’ve been doing that a lot, recently.”

If he was startled by the intervention, he quickly did away with the evidence, his tone bland.

“I’ve been working with my brother," he said. "Diplomatic issues. Boundary lines and budgets—among other things.”

Her eyes narrowed, though he didn't see in the dark. He went to the washroom with barely concealed haste—a shelter from her scrutiny.

It had always been a task to read him, but she knew he was lying. He never detailed his work, never told her more than he needed to about his political dealings. Equivocating as he usually did would have been more convincing than his alibis. She could see right through him.

She didn't know whether to bask in the triumph of her discovery, or lament its meaning.

~

He came home one day aching and sore. A failed mission had given him a fresh cut on his arm, one which he had aimlessly dressed himself in hopes of evading the tedious care of medics and rushing to more pressing paperwork that awaited him at home.

Flesh wound it might have been, however, it breathed pain into his body every time he moved, an annoyance to his daily routines. 

His wife had noticed his discomfort the moment he returned, but opted to stay silent. She anticipated his sour mood, and had no plans to tolerate it that day. Unfortunately her curiosity took its root, and after numerous glances stolen at the visible, poorly wrapped wound, she saw the faintest traces of red seeping out through the fabric. He was bleeding through the dressing. 

Hesitantly she inquired, “Are you alright?”

“I'm fine.”

A gruff reply, as usual. Apparently too distracted by the urgent task of completing mission reports, he offered her nothing more. He couldn't be bothered to find the underlying concern in her tone. Even if he had, he wouldn't have been less inclined to evade what he knew would come next: persistence.

She quarreled with her thoughts. Let him be stubborn. Let the wound fester. That would show him, surely. She was still irritated—offended, even—that he had been blatantly avoiding her. The realization settled in her chest with shame and anger. She thought they were doing well up until that point. So distraught with his behavior was she that the thought of returning to their prior life of constantly ignoring each other didn't seem so unappealing anymore.

Then again, she liked to see him silently agonizing through pain even less than she liked him being simply silent. She would have preferred his rancor if he were unscathed, and whole. The sight of his wound left her own arm throbbing in a desperate cry for relief. 

She was already kneeling beside him before he could question her approach.

“You’re hurt,” she said, responding to his narrow-eyed look with a subtle frown. “You can’t keep a wound like this untreated.”

“I told you I’m fine.” He shifted away. “I’ll dress it again soon.”

She put a hand on his shoulder; a gentle touch, the movement slow and cautious.

“My medical jutsu isn’t any good, but I can wrap it—”

“I’m _fine_.”

“You’re _not_. Just let me help you, Tobirama.”

He huffed, and made a quiet noise that sounded like frustrated defeat. He avoided her eyes, jaw tensing.

“Fine.”

Strangely, her heart fluttered at the compromise. She had expected more of a fight. Nevertheless, she followed through with the offer, and went in search of supplies they had littered around the house. 

He tensed the moment she put her hands on him, but the pressure slowly drained from his body as she unraveled the bandages and cleaned his wound. Although he couldn't readily relax, he wouldn't deny the soothing touch of her fingers. It was odd, but palpable. 

Her heart raced as she finished redressing the cut, as if exhilarated by her accomplishment. It was a simple pleasure to be of some help, she decided, even if it had been less than welcomed.

He practically nudged her off when he saw that her work was done, unable to muster gratitude, though he knew he should. He had tried to compromise with himself recently, wondering what should or could be done to make their lives easier.

He decided on a simple beginning: attempt congeniality if he could, and accept it when she offered, which seemed to be happening more often. 

“Thank you," he said finally.

Her terse silence did more than just annoy him; it upset him. Had he sounded insincere? He hoped not. He certainly hadn't meant to. Maybe he would have to work on that, too. 

“You’re welcome.”

And as she said it, a heat blossomed in her chest that forced her body into action.

Before she could consider the consequences, and encouraged by a tumbling plethora of emotion, she leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

His face burned, inflamed with uncertainty from the confusing stimulus. He flinched away, pinning her with a startled glare.

He said nothing. Neither did she. The embarrassment that seeped into her face was distinct, but not what he found first noticeable. It was her wide eyes that claimed his gaze. They shone with anticipation, with courage and hope, animated in such a way that he couldn't help but stare.

It wasn't the first time he had caught himself looking at her so closely. Is that what drew him in? What had always drawn him in? Those gleaming, soft eyes? He didn't know. All he did know was that his mind no longer supervised his body's desires.

He leaned closer. She did the same.

In the instant their lips met, he thought she sighed quietly, but he couldn't be sure, not with the way his heart pounded so anxiously that he could hear it in his ears. His eyes closed almost at the same time hers did. Her lips were soft and warm, and exceedingly gentle.

A pause as broke away from each other; they breathed, waiting.

Then their lips met again, experimentally, telling of mutual inexperience. The raging discomfort in his chest ebbed away, replaced with uncertainty and curiosity, and something warm… ease, maybe. Its sudden onset floored him.

But it didn't last.

It was when that ease finally settled in his gut that the alarm bells resumed their fretful noise. Confusion supplanted whatever comfort was there, the softness of her lips no longer a bliss he could allow himself.

He pulled away from her.

The stunned expression on her face made her look like an innocent, lost child. He couldn't stand to see it, and tore his eyes away.

“Tobirama—”

“I need to make a report,” he interrupted hurriedly, voice lacking its usual poise. He demanded his heart to slow its erratic beating to no avail. “I need to concentrate.”

Her defeated stupor molded into a disappointed frown.

It was an excuse—a plea for her to leave. The reaction conveyed what it needed to, but her stomach twisted with emotional defiance. She would have basked in the startling reality of what had happened if the anger didn’t so quickly set in.

How long would he continue the ruse? How long would he deny what he felt, and condemn her for it? Had he not felt the warmth she had? Had he not… _enjoyed_ it?

“Are you disgusted by me?” she asked.

He paused, but still refused to look at her. His voice was calm when he spoke, distress exposed only by the sharp edge in his tone.

“No.”

“Then _what_?”

His shoulders squared with tension, titillated by the promise of an argument. “I have work—”

“Stop.”

The desperate strength in her voice silenced any vain excuse he was prepared to give. When he said nothing, her patience withered, and anger washed over again in a crushing wave.

“What did I do?” she pleaded with him, sounding faintly frantic. She detested the weakness within her, but it couldn't be helped.

He shook his head, grasping for an answer that would quell her and save them both from unnecessary contrite. He found none. 

“No good will come from forcing this,” he said.

“ _Forcing_ it?” she asked incredulously. He still didn't look at her.

Her thoughts crumbled into a heap. All the months of subdued civility were for naught. She should have known that it wasn’t going to work. With a man like him, how could it?

“Is that how it is then? You’re so sickened by me you have to _force_ it—”

“No,” he said curtly, as if exasperated, as if confused. “That’s not it, I told you. It’s just not...”

“Not what?”

“It’s not right.”

She watched him for a long time, trying to figure him out, trying to see the future with him she was once able to so positively envision. It seemed a faraway delusion now.

“Why did you even agree to marry me?” She asked it with such defeat that it hardly seemed like a question. 

“I'm to blame now?” he returned angrily, finally looking at her. “You agreed to it just as I did.”

“No. _Of course_ I didn’t. Your answer was an answer on my behalf. You think I had a choice? If you had just refused—”

“And what? Insult your clan?”

Not that he necessarily had a problem with that. Refusing had been his immediate stance on the matter, regardless. Clan relations be damned. They had more than enough clans in the village now, clans that didn’t require marriage as a condition of unity. What did he lose by insulting one clan? Why had he agreed? Where had his logic resided? How had he gotten himself into this mess?

“Don’t pretend like that had anything to do with it,” she said. 

She knew him well enough by that point. If he really cared about honor and dignity, about maintaining peace to appease both their clans, he wouldn’t have treated their marriage—or _her_ , for that matter—with such neglect.

“Don’t pretend like it’s anything but you and your arrogance," she insisted.

“You’re blaming me when you’re just as guilty as I am?” His voice sounded colder than before, abandoning whatever patience he had attempted. “Don’t pretend as if you’ve been agreeable or anything close to it.”

“How could I be with a sorry excuse for a husband like you?”

There was a short silence then. She would have been intimidated by the hard look on his face, but her own anger overwhelmed all other thought. He didn't appear to be offended by the comment. If anything, it was her brazen alone that bewildered him. He studied her, as if deciding how to respond. 

She was surprised when she didn't receive any backlash. But she would have preferred that or something even worse to what she did receive: quiet scorn.

He glanced away, focus going back to the paperwork in front of him, as if finally and utterly giving up on their strife.

“You should leave. I’m working.” He tried to ignore her, tried to pretend she wasn't there, but her glare felt searing.

“Is that all you have to say?” Her hands shook with frustration. She hated the hot feeling of anger in her chest—didn't he feel it too? Didn't he want resolve? How could he surrender so easily?

“Yes,” he answered without a second’s pause. 

Her face burned. Her heart pounded. The desperation pained her, so badly she could have screamed, but she knew arguing would be fruitless. He would rather ignore their problems than face them. Naively, she had hoped for better.

She left him then, the threat of angry tears stinging her eyes.

~

They avoided each other completely. Tobirama did all that he could to keep away: accepting more missions, assisting his brother, working his students to the bone. On the rare occasion that they were in the house at the same time, they didn't speak. They didn't even look at each other. Often, to Tobirama, it felt as though he were living alone. 

In an earlier time, at the beginning of the marriage, that might have been a pleasant arrangement for the both of them. Now, knowing it was a dispute fueled by acrimony and not by apathy made for a desolate reality. 

But one day, she snapped.

“If it would be easier for me to just move out of the house then you should tell me now, unless you wish to continue this ruse for the rest of our lives.”

He was sitting in the living room reading through a scroll when she spat it out, so abruptly, so cold and unhinged.

He turned to look at her. She stood with her arms crossed, frowning down at him. He scowled in response.

“I’m not the one prolonging the issue,” he said.

“You aren’t? Then what? It’s just a coincidence that you send an envoy to speak with my clan now instead of talking to me? Your _wife_? You're avoiding this, Tobirama.”

“We both are,” he pointed out. 

It was true what he said, but what choice did she have except to stay idle? She had to, for her own sanity. If she welcomed the feelings of frustration and misery that followed every time she thought about their situation, what good would it do? If she searched for a passive alternative, one that might save them from an atrocious future together, she would be left with nothing. 

“This isn’t going to work," she said. "What good is this marriage if we can’t stand each other? How will that reflect on our alliance?”

“You act as though you expected more out of this.”

She paused. The statement bewildered her. Until then, the thought hadn't even crossed her mind: she had been entirely alone in her wishful thinking, from the very first.

Where she had hoped for something more in their future—something sentimental, even—he had simply wanted a decency between them. Even if they couldn’t love each other, she wished for a harmonious life with him. But maybe not even that was possible.

That thought suddenly had her angry. She should have known. She should have known it was nothing but fantasy.

“Then why do this, Tobirama? Why put me—why put _yourself_ through this? If you never had any intention of trying, then why? If you hadn’t agreed to an alliance—”

“I wish I hadn’t.”

Whatever else she had to say was lost in the face of the harsh declaration.

Why did his words afflict her? Why did she care? Especially now when any semblance of hope within her had dwindled down to nothing?

“I would go back on it if I could,” he continued, even though he didn't have to; her silence affirmed that she still distressed over the previous confession. He was no longer angry. His voice was calm, but the words still cut like a knife. He had no delusions of amending what could no longer be salvaged. She needed to come to terms with the reality of their situation. “Marrying you was a mistake. I know that. And so do you.”

A tightness in her chest made it difficult to breath, as if accepting the air would coax out the frustrated tears that threatened her. She felt so weak, and so stupid.

“Leave if that’s what you want,” he said, unforgiving.

A part of him hated his own merciless, unsolicited apathy; the other favored the thought of ending their conflict, and denying any detrimental fantasies that promised happiness in their future. He knew that could never happen. Not now, after everything.

“It will be better for the both of us.”

She waited for more. She waited for an apology. But she knew she wouldn't receive it. At least an _acknowledgement_ could have sufficed, an acknowledgment that no matter his truths, he had been especially cruel to her, and that her fragility wasn't the sole perpetrator. She begged for any semblance of resolution. 

But no. There was nothing that came to fill the hollow defeat within her. 

For what she prayed would be the last time, she left him, on the verge of tears.

~

A month passed. He heard that she was living with one of her relatives on the other side of the village, but didn't think to pursue it as fact or hearsay. As far as he was concerned, he had no right to her whereabouts. What she did or didn't do had no bearing on him anymore, did it?

Tobirama tried to force himself to enjoy the reprieve. It seemed logical, a triumph he had long sought; there was no troubling presence in his life anymore, no one to contest him. He no longer walked through his door preparing for a night of tension. He no longer climbed into bed next to a body that both unconsciously lured him and emotionally rebuffed him. He was free of the confusion, free of the turmoil. 

All of this should have been in his sanity's favor, but there was an unshakable emptiness. He felt it in his home. In his gut. In his mind. He couldn't understand why it weighed him down so heavily, but it did. And he despised it. 

~

The next time Tobirama visited the Hokage office, she was there.

Upon walking in unannounced to see her at his brother's side, Tobirama staggered and waited for an alleviating answer to the anxious surge within him.

She stared, silent but similarly displeased by the encounter, looking as though she would have given anything to be anywhere but there.

His mind reached for something meaningful to say, something that would constitute a reasonable reaction and convey anything besides the chaotic mess inside his head. But his quick wits had apparently abandoned him at the sight of her. 

Swiftness betraying her fluster, she returned to her conversation with Hashirama, who stared between husband and wife uneasily as if expecting marital quarrel to ensue at any second.

“I’ll speak to my father, Hashirama," she said to him, concluding an unheard conversation Tobirama would have normally and pointedly pressed his brother to disclose after the fact. But Tobirama had no will in him to do so.

The Hokage attempted a smile, but it was marred by the tension of the room. A tension he would have normally fought to ignore, but it was nearly unbearable now.

Hashirama knew little of what transpired between the couple behind closed doors, courtesy of his younger brother's taciturn lifestyle. In public they appeared to get along well enough, a fact which had immensely pleased Hashirama. But now, he saw that to have been but a wishful illusion.

She bowed, and then, without looking at her husband, made her way to the door.

Tobirama’s expression was undecipherable, cold and steely, as if her disregard meant nothing to him. But his heart played a different tune. 

The door closed behind her as she left. Tobirama fought the urge to follow her. He almost followed through with the impulse; a slight twitch in his hand as he thought of reaching for the doorknob. 

But he couldn't do it.

She stood right outside the door, waiting for him to come after her, hoping that he would.

When he didn't, she left, morbidly defeated.

~

Tobirama realized his entire world had changed the day his squad was ambushed.

Luckily, no lives were lost. They escaped with only wounds, some more severe than others. He had the misfortune of receiving the worst.

It was his own fault, really. He should have detected the unit of enemy shinobi flanking them before they attacked. Whatever clouded his sensory abilities, he couldn't say.

He commanded his squad to flee ahead as he fended off the enemy. One had an exceptionally proficient lightning style that struck him while he parried two other shinobi. It pierced him in the chest. Fleetingly, he thought he could feel the harsh current stab into his heart, but the jolt sent his mind reeling into a place of disorientation, denying him rational, stable thought.

It was in that fraction of a second when the searing pain rushed through his veins and paralyzed him that Tobirama realized two things. 

The first being that his battle skills had waned; Hashirama had joked about it recently, something about neglecting his training in favor of diplomacy, but Tobirama had foolishly ignored the comment. If he lived, Tobirama decided, he would remedy that.

The second, that he’d underestimated how greatly his wife had impacted his life.

His wife. His wife who probably hated him. The wife he would leave behind if he perished there, in the thick of the woods alone and surrounded by enemies. Despite having long ago accepted the inevitability of his demise on the battlefield, the thought of his death upset him, slowly because it was accompanied by the thought of her, and never seeing her again.

Then he understood.

He’d become attached to her, and in a way he never would have imagined; thinking of her sent his mind into a baffling frenzy of frustration and yearning. Thinking of how they argued reignited the flames of anger in his chest; thinking of her brazen and her snide remarks; thinking of all the things that had so immensely irritated him before but now seemed infinitesimal in comparison.

Those arguments would have been a blessing to endure now, as he collapsed onto the ground and his body convulsed with pain, as the enemy raised his sword and drove the weapon down for the finishing blow.

Her face was the last thing that crossed his mind before his vision failed him.

~

He woke in the Konoha hospital, feeling an urge to regurgitate whatever food—though he couldn't remember when he last ate, or what his meal had been—lurched around in his stomach. Trying to decide how long he had been there was useless; his memory failed him no matter how hard he thought. Accordingly, estimating how he escaped the battle with his life was even less agreeable with his spinning head.

He briefly remembered coming to his senses and evading the enemy's sword, only to stumble through a sloppy counter and narrowly escape with his team. From that time to his present state, he couldn't recall the steps he'd taken. The only reason he could recount dashing through the forest in hurried escape was because of the pain that had accompanied his journey—an ache in his body like it had been set aflame. It was a wonder he had made it out at all. Yet there he was, alive but immobile—rightfully so; moving even a joint reminded his body of its dormant ache, and he settled for remaining still.

His vision recovered soon after. He blinked the heavy fog of sleep from his eyes and looked around. That was when he noticed his wife.

She sat in a chair next to his bed, head resting at the space near his arm. Although hers had been the only image his mind conjured before his attempted demise, it was also the last he would have ever expected to see waiting at his side, at least volitionally, which he assumed to be the case. There was no other reason for her to have been there, idling in what he imagined was anxious wait for him to awaken. Perhaps because his brain was still warm with disorientation, he could have forgotten all the misfortune that plagued them before, especially now that she was there, at his side, so close to him.

What compelled him to do it he didn't know, but the moment the blood returned to his limbs and granted him movement, he reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder.

Immediately she stirred awake, and sat upright to look at him, disheveled and baffled.

His voice sounded coarse when he spoke, “How long?”

She rubbed her tired eyes. “You were brought in yesterday morning. They said you collapsed a mile outside the village.”

Strange, he thought. It felt more like he had been asleep for a week. His muscles refused to adhere to his command; he couldn't even move his legs, almost as if they had forgotten their function from neglect. 

He didn’t realize she had moved her hand to rest over his. The warmth of her palm revitalized him in an unusual way, but he was too nauseous to question the sentiment.

“The rest of my team?” 

She nodded. “They’re fine.”

He closed his tired eyes and rested his head back to fight his swimming vision. He would have been relived to hear that there’d been no casualties, but there still remained a heavy pain in his chest, and not a physical one.

She reached out to him, noticing the pinch in his brows.

“Do you need something? Water?”

He shook his head as he tried desperately to gather his thoughts. It was so different from their recent encounters. He remembered nothing but brutal words and vicious tones and heated glares. Then he remembered their kiss.

If his pride had been a priority, he would have masked the softness between them then, and returned to that dismal state of acerbity he knew so well. It seemed the natural thing to do when in her presence. He was so used to it, depressing as it was to acknowledge.

But in that moment, it felt different. He couldn't be mad at her. Wearing his bitterness like a second skin was exhausting—he resented it. There was no reason to continue the needless strife. It may still have been his befuddled mind leading his instincts astray—but he didn't care. Not anymore.

She offered him a glass of water. “You need to eat and hydrate, Tobirama—”

“I’m sorry.”

For a moment she said nothing, and merely watched him in silence. He sounded strangely sincere. She had never heard such a soft cadence in his voice.

“For what?”

He peeked one eye open to glance at her, drained and cynical. It was obvious. She must have known. Did she need him to say it out loud? For her own acquittal?

His harsh words still echoed in her head. They always would, she imagined. A painful reminder. She knew what he hoped to remedy with the apology, though forgiveness wouldn’t be easily wrought. 

Despite that, she sighed, not a drop of resentment existing in her face or her tired voice.

“I understand why you said it.”

“No. You don’t.”

She waited for clarification. He was hesitant to continue; he had never been good at these sort of things.

“I opposed the marriage because I thought you would be a nuisance,” he murmured, eyes closed once again, brows knit ever so slightly in pain. The ache in his head returned in full force, perhaps because his mind worked diligently for the right words. “I thought you would want from me what I couldn’t give you.”

“Which is what?”

He thought carefully. “For me to genuinely care. About the marriage. About you.”

As he said it, his hand slipped from hers. She cleared her throat, looking down into the water glass. Sadness rooted inside of her like an old friend. Comfort had glimmered momentarily, but with his words, it crumbled again.

“I never expected that, Tobirama," she said. "Not from an arranged marriage. Maybe I was just being too idealistic." The defeated look on her face worsened as she finally came to terms with it. "We don’t owe each other anything. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pressure you—”

“No.” He worked his jaw, unable to speak the words that needed to be said. “You don’t need to worry about that. Not anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

He didn't answer. He planned to work around an explanation, give her some sort of clarity without entirely debasing himself, but the pain in his body overwhelmed him in full. He grimaced through the discomfort.

She forgot the question that made her heart pound in favor of soothing him. Her hand caressed his arm in spite of her hesitance.

“You should be resting.”

“I need to get up.”

He tried, but sunk back into the sheets when his muscles failed him. He breathed through his teeth, frustrated.

“I don’t want to stay here.”

“No, Tobirama.” She gently pressed him back down when he tried again. “Your wounds—”

“I’ll be fine—”

“ _Please_ just rest.” It was a sincere and convincing plea, apparently convincing enough that he didn't attempt to move again.

“I’ll stay with you," she insisted. "You can’t leave until you’re better.”

Again the words resonated with him. He reluctantly relaxed back in the bed, watching her closely, eyes ever cynical.

The new calm pleased her. It was refreshing to have him listen for once, and not debate or make snide remarks. She dampened a towel in cold water and pressed it against his forehead.

“Besides," she added, "you should wait for Hashirama. We were here all day and all night yesterday. He stayed by your side. He was so worried about you. He had to leave this morning, but said he would be back.”

He didn't respond, didn't even give her any reason to believe he was even listening. She didn't mind, thinking the pain occupied his ability to concentrate, and was about to go seek out one of the nurses when his surprisingly quiet voice stopped her.

“And why did you stay?”

At first, she didn't understand what he was asking, and waited for him to continue. His eyes were soft, but stared at her with knowing, narrowed expectation. 

“The same reason as my brother?” he surmised.

And then she understood. But she had no answer. There was more to be said, they both could feel it. The question touched the long-suppressed tension that neither wished to confront. But the sentiment was too much; their uncertainty too fresh. 

She stood from her seat, unable to look at him. “I’m going to find a nurse. You need something for the pain.”

She left before he could respond. He watched her, wishing that he could make some sense of it all; he had never been so equally confused and certain about something in his entire life. But such was marriage, he assumed. Or at least, their marriage.

It would take getting used to.

~

“Tobirama, you should lie down and rest—”

“I’ve rested enough.”

They came through the front door of their home, her following at his side like a worried mother. As she reached to rest a precautionary hand on his shoulder, he nudged her away for what seemed like the hundredth time since they'd made the long walk home from the hospital.

An hour long argument with the medical staff served as the ticket to his discharge. He still had a solid two days before he reached minimal recovery, the staff had said. Even Hashirama had preemptively beseeched the medics to ensure his brother was healed before departure. But Tobirama, in true obstinate fashion, would not let that stop him. He had things to do, mission reports to write up, incomplete work to resume. Another day spent in the hospital was another day delaying duties, and he was tired of being nurtured like a child. Especially by his wife. The doting might have been appreciated under different circumstances. But it felt different now. Not annoying. Not upsetting. Simply different.

“You wanted to come home, here we are. If not at the hospital, then at least rest _here,"_ she pleaded, bordering exasperation. She couldn’t watch him be so negligent to his body, as if he hadn’t been bed-ridden a day before. “And you realize when your brother finds out you left, he’ll come here and make you go back.”

“He can try. I’m fine.” But even as he said it, pain shot up his side. She saw his nearly imperceptible wince in response. He put a hand up before she could protest. “I’m _fine_.”

“You’re not. You won't recover if you keep running around like this.” She followed him on the way to his home office, knowing that if he succeeded in shutting himself in, he would drown himself in work. “You can’t exhaust yourself like this, Tobirama.”

A firm hand on his chest finally stopped him in his tracks. It appeared to startle him—how easily she touched him now. Regardless, he paused to hear her out, a ghost of a scowl on his face.

“You need to relax," she insisted. "Don’t be so stubborn.”

His features hardened again, but it didn't discourage her.

“At least let me make you some tea. And something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten all day.”

“I’ll eat later.”

“Please.”

He said nothing in return, but he looked to be debating whether to argue or concede. In the end, he conceded. 

“Fine.”

She seemed to be winning these arguments more often, he noted.

“Thank you.”

She managed to coerce him into one of the kitchen seats to drink his tea, but he didn't touch the cup. He seemed in a trance, staring down at the steaming liquid like he had something to say to it. It bothered her.

“What is it?”

But she received no easy answer. Not that she expected it to be any other way with Tobirama. He merely shook his head, occupied with his thoughts. 

She took the seat next to him, her own cup of hot tea warming her palm. Still, he remained in deep thought, either unable to formulate a response or unwilling to speak at all. She guessed the latter. Their short time together since his return to the village had been coated with unshakable pressure, not completely unlike the kind they had experienced before under their burgeoning marital issues, but something more placid. Something begging to be resolved. They could both feel it. It only stood to see who would answer the resolve first. 

Finally, he looked at her.

“You look tired," he said. 

The comment surprised her. She didn't take offense to it, but it was an odd, mundane thing for him to say, regardless. 

“I haven’t had much sleep in the last few days,” she explained.

“Because of me.”

It was less of an inquiry and more of a statement. And a true one. She nodded.

“I couldn’t just leave you alone. I had to stay.”

She said it as if in defeat, as if she were yielding to the emotion behind her words. She didn’t see any use in hiding it.

“You shouldn’t have.”

The serious tone would usually precede an argument. She knew it well enough. But she wouldn't let that happen. It wasn't the time, nor the place. 

“Well I did.”

It seemed the appropriate response in her mind, perhaps a sliver too antagonistic. But he didn't respond. His features tightened into something like displeasure, but still, he remained silent. 

She thought it would be a conclusive and agreeable alternative to the beginning of an argument, but no. It still felt like incomplete comfort, merely a temporary pause to a friction that would never leave them unless thoroughly exposed, and thoroughly flushed out.

“It’s the least I could do,” she added.

He watched her with curious regard. “And by that, you mean what?”

She shook her head, unable to return his gaze now that she knew he was looking. It wasn't that the words were lost to her—more like she needed to sort them in a way that made her feel less vulnerable to their sentiment.

“It’s like I said. I made this out to be something it wasn't. I complicated everything. I didn’t mean to.”

“Is that another apology?”

Judging by his expression, he wasn't entirely joking, but she saw he wasn't scorning her, either.

It unsettled her in a way. He had always been the serious one, never one to let softness slip through the gaps. Yet she couldn't stop thinking about what he'd said in the hospital, how he’d never intended to care about the marriage, about her. Perhaps she had thought the same, in the beginning. Only later had her wishful thoughts of a peaceful future cushioned her from reality. She should have had clarity now. She should have been able to accept what they were, and equally, what they never could be.

Nonetheless, she still didn't know if the apathy suited her, or their situation. It didn’t seem right to cast their marriage aside so easily. It didn't seem fair. And if it _was_ that fair, or that easy, her heart wouldn't have been in such pain as it were right then. 

“I know I haven’t been a good wife," she murmured before she could stop herself.

Her face burned with embarrassment. She had never felt so fragile. His silence didn't help, but then he sighed.

“No more than I’ve been a good husband.”

She looked at him, unfamiliar with the soft edges of his face. His handsome face. She was so rarely able to admire it; he frowned most of the time. She thought she should count herself lucky for witnessing such a rarity.

Neither spoke for quite some time. Not because nothing more needed to be said—they both knew the gravity of the conversation that they'd heavily avoided—but they had yet to fully test the waters of their cease-fire. It felt comforting, and refreshing, but uncertain still, nonetheless.

“I’ll make us some dinner,” she offered.

She rose from her seat, tea untouched. Tobirama watched her from the corner of his eye, unable to shake the heavy feeling that disheartened him.

~

They finished their meals mostly in silence. The conversations that did come were short and insignificant.

Even when they got into bed, the reach for normality was far from them. They tried to talk. It somehow felt easier with the lights off where they couldn't see each other, both staring up at the ceiling, sheltered by darkness.

The last of their ability to force a conversation died into silence. She wondered if all future attempts would suffer the same fate, if they would forever be chained to ambiguity that prevented progress if nothing was done about it. It sounded unfathomable, and no way to live out the rest of their lives. 

She turned on her side to look at him. In the dark, she could only see the glint of his eyes, tired, but unwilling to close, still fixed on the ceiling.

“Can I ask you something?” she inquired softly. 

He was hesitant to reply. Who knew what it would entail?

“What?”

She was riddled with doubt, wondering exactly how to word her question. She had indulged herself in the past weeks wondering what she might say to him if given the chance—all of these scenarios ending less than congenially given the way they'd left things off. But it wasn't vindication that fueled her now; she wanted peace.

“Are you willing to try?”

He turned his head to glance at her, brows knit with curiosity. He waited for her to explain.

“To try to make this work,” she clarified.

He breathed out slowly, a breath of solemn understanding, as if it sounded too difficult a task for him to even ponder. He’d known this moment would come. He too had mustered visions in his head of a reconciliation, but now, living the invention, he had no idea how to form his thoughts. 

“I know you said you couldn’t care about the marriage,” she continued. “Not completely. But to keep up appearances, we should—”

“I told you not to worry about that.”

She shut her mouth. It was clear that he meant it to be the end of the discussion. But she wouldn't let it end there. She would no longer settle with equivocation. 

“What did you mean by that?”

He shut his eyes, as if it would shelter him from her inquisitive, almost pleading gaze.

“I told you. Don’t worry.”

“How can I not?”

“______.”

It was the first time she had heard her name come from him so softly, almost tenderly.

She looked at him for a long time in the darkness, seeing no changes in his features that would have offered an answer.

“I just need reassurance, Tobirama. Is that a yes, or a no?”

Another long silence. She didn't realize how eagerly her heart raced until she felt a flare of pain in her chest.

“Yes.”

The tangible relaxation coursed through her. A weight had been lifted.

Yes. He would do it. He would try.

She wondered why such a heartfelt understanding had never occurred before, in the beginning, before everything spiraled into tension and chaos. It filled her with a sense of lofty anticipation.

The prospect of actually making it work, of actually living their life agreeably, excited her. If they could _really_ be a couple—not a perfect couple, by any means—able to live and function with each other, the future she had once envisioned for them which had been so drearily crushed before now looked rather promising. 

She rested a gentle hand on his chest. “Thank you.”

His heart was steady under her palm, subdued and rhythmic. He must not have been bothered by the contact, she thought, which both surprised and pleased her. She smiled softly, in spite of herself. A comforting, warm feeling of momentary ease replaced her sublime illusions.

It was a risky impulse, maybe the riskiest thing she’d ever done, but she reached over and gently took his hand.

She saw his eyes peel open slowly, still looking at the ceiling, and not at her. If he was offended by the contact, he made no move to stop her.

Then he squeezed her hand. It filled her with warmth. An embarrassing, overpowering warmth. His thumb brushed her skin. He didn't seem anymore sure about it than she was. Nevertheless, he didn't move away. He didn't want to.

She was the first to lean closer. He didn't follow suit, not immediately. He simply regarded her as she entered his space, watching the soft determination in her features. The relief was infectious; he too relaxed at the contact, his face aloof but welcoming, as if to tell her he wouldn't deny her, but he didn't completely know how to cope with his desires. And that was alright; she didn’t know either. 

One of her soft hands found his cheek. She was relieved when he didn't draw away from the contact. Even when she leaned in to fill the space between them, there was no opposition.

Their lips met. The inexperience from their first kiss lingered, but there was a soft confidence to it now. An intention, and an enthusiasm; neither had any intention to renounce the affection.

It was a short kiss. They pulled away, but the tingling excitement in her body remained. The warmth painting his cheeks was almost overwhelming. They both had yet to master the art of deferring their pride, but they found themselves for the first time consumed by touch. So consumed that neither could think of anything else but to come closer for another kiss, and then another, until the rhythm wasn't so difficult to follow.

~

In the middle of the night when he awoke, he found his arms around her. He didn't pull away. He wouldn't be doing that anymore, he knew. He instead pulled her closer. 

It was as though for the first time he was really feeling her: tracing the curves of her body, running over the goosebumps on her bare skin. This was his wife. Now and always. 

Content, he closed his eyes and drifted off soon after, into a sleep that had never felt so complete, or so perfect. 


End file.
